


Movie Night

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9062035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: Agent Washington can usually handle the sim troopers' noisy bickering, but tonight is movie night, there's a war raging outside, and Wash hasn't been getting that much sleep lately...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cinderrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinderrain/gifts).



> This fic was written for this year's RvB Secret Santa for cinderrain!!

Wash hates movie night.

 

Not because the only movie Tucker seems to own is a homemade remake of  _ Reservoir Dogs _ . Not because a wooden plank could have given a more convincing performance than Grif. Not because in place of popcorn and soda they had ration bars and coffee (if you could call the filtered dirt they supplied here  _ coffee _ ). 

 

No, Wash hates movie night because it feels safe. Too safe. The innocent insults and banter among the sim troopers bely the war raging just outside the walls of the base. Felix and Locus aren’t watching shitty Tarantino remakes.

 

How can he sit here, politely refusing the ration bar Donut is trying to shove into his hand and the moonshine Grif pulls out of nowhere (“I’d like to keep my eyesight, thanks”), not enjoying a terrible movie while people are out there dying? How can he even begin to ignore that?

 

Well, he can’t.

 

Wash’s attention never holds past the first thirty seconds of the movie before he is eyeing the doorway, tracking the movement of everyone (Sarge Donut Simmons Grif Caboose Tucker Jensen Andersmith Bitters Palomo that makes eleven if he counts himself) in the room, analyzing the lethality of every possible weapon in the room (Sarge’s shotgun always Wash never went anywhere without his knife Tucker and his sword were literally attached at the hip Grif’s bottle of moonshine would work as both a blunt object and and explosive device). He has to be ready.  _ Someone  _ has to be, and it certainly isn’t going to be any of the sim troopers. 

 

Then claustrophobia kicks in as Caboose plops onto the couch and Wash is squashed between the blue soldier and Tucker, a limp piece of lettuce in an otherwise acceptable sandwich (though if there was  _ one  _ positive thing about movie night it was that he had an excuse to sit next to the teal soldier). The last shred of comfort he had is stripped away. 

 

Any other night, Wash would sigh and bear it. 

 

Tonight, though, it just gets his heart racing.

 

To distract himself he concentrates on Tucker as the teal soldier brags about his prowess as a director.

 

“I mean, I feel like I could totally be the next Tarantino-- minus the foot fetish, plus a freckle fetish. Bow chicka bow wow.”

 

Wash is so wound up he doesn’t bother to react. Tucker gives him a look out of the corner of his eye, but is unable to say anything because Caboose leaps up from the couch, almost knocking Wash off. 

 

“Church! Church, thank goodness you are here!” Caboose booms.

 

Wash looks over at the doorway, where Carolina has entered with Epsilon perched on her shoulder. While Wash has gotten used to Caboose calling Epsilon “Church,” he has no love for either name. 

 

Too many memories there. 

 

Epsilon, ignoring Caboose, is busy explaining the existence of the movie to Carolina.

 

“ _ Someone  _ set the projector on fire, destroying the inside of the base and, incidentally, Tucker’s copy of the actual movie,” he says.

 

“Tucker did it,” Caboose chimes in.

 

“Dude, why would I ruin the best movie ever?” Tucker protests.

 

“Maybe you were, ah, jealous of how much better of a director Canteen Tarantula is than you,” Caboose offers.

 

“Canteen  _ what _ ?” 

 

“Tarantula.”

 

“It’s  _ Tarantino _ , moron,” Grif grumbles. He is sprawled on the floor, head propped up against the couch. 

 

“Oh, I am sorry,” Caboose says. “Canteen Tarantino.”

 

“Oh, my god,” Tucker groans.

 

“Church!” Caboose yells, Tucker already forgotten. “You missed the part of the movie with you in it. That is my favorite part.”

 

“He missed the entire movie, dumbass,” Grif says.

 

“Then we will watch it again!” Caboose exclaims.

 

“But we’ve already watched it, like, twenty times,” Simmons complains. He sits cross-legged next to Grif, tinkering with his robot arm. 

 

“Yes, but um, you see, we have watched it zero times with Church.” And with that, Caboose makes a mad dash for the VCR (where in god’s name did they get one of  _ those  _ dinosaurs?) and Wash knows that if he sits through one more playthrough he might actually explode. 

 

Without a word he rises from the couch and stalks out of the room, eyes straight ahead, jaw set. Calm, cool, and collected, he makes his way towards his bunk. 

 

He steps inside and  lets out a yell and punches the metal wall. Pain laces up his arm, but not enough to illicit an exclamation; it’s nothing compared to the shit he experienced in Freelancer. In fact, he relishes the dull throb in his shoulder, the splitting pain in his knuckles. 

 

Wash tries to tell himself it’s just nerves. That he has no idea why he is furious and trying to beat a wall to death. 

 

But the truth of the matter is that this facade, this mask of stone he has been wearing since his arrival on Chorus, has been threatening to shatter for weeks. 

 

Night and day are no different anymore; Wash barely sleeps now and when he does, he wakes up screaming, sobbing, or both. Minutes turn to hours turn to days and he can’t remember the last time he had to make his bed, had to set an alarm, wasn’t the first in the training room. 

 

Yesterday he could have sworn he saw Maine staring at him from doorway of the supply closet. 

 

Just this morning he thought he heard Connie’s voice over the radio.

 

_ Jesus _ , Wash thinks, sinking to the floor of his room to sit, back pressed up against the cool metal wall. Body aching, knuckles bleeding.  _ I’m going to kill myself at this rate.  _

 

But he can’t.

 

He can’t die yet because he has work to do, another war to fight (Or is it the same war? He doesn’t know anymore). Carolina and Epsilon may bring up many painful memories, but they are also a reminder. A warning. 

 

Wash lost one family, he can’t lose another.

 

Resting the back of his head against the wall, Wash holds up a shaking, bloody fist to inspect the damage. Well it isn’t ideal, and he knows training is going to suck in the morning. Without hesitation he begins to concoct an explanation for the state of his hands, wondering if he can pull off wearing wraps while training to avoid the inevitable bombardment of concerned questions. 

 

Without thinking he runs a hand through his hair.

 

“Shit,” he curses. Bad idea, running his bloody hand through his blond hair. Now he’ll have to shower again. It looks like he banged his head into the wall, and with a humorless chuckle he wonders if a blow to the head is what he needs to clear his head.

 

Wash is contemplating crawling to the showers when his door slides open and Tucker bursts in.

 

It’s almost comical as Wash watches Tucker survey the room, his head sweeping back and forth, looking everywhere but to his lower left. Then Wash remembers that he has no desire to be seen like this.

 

Perhaps if he sits perfectly still, Tucker won’t--

 

“Dude, what the fuck?” Tucker has spotted him. His eyes widen as he takes in Wash, the pink tinge to his disheveled hair, the blood covering his clenched fists, the bright red stain on the wall above him. His jaw tightens and he takes a step forward.

 

“Don’t worry about it, please just leave,” Wash says, pushing himself to his feet. Fuck his knee hurts. Did he knee the wall too? He can’t remember.

 

“Worry? Right,” Tucker scoffs, folding his arms. “There’s no reason to be worried about the fact you tried to assassinate the wall.”

 

Wash has no idea how to respond, so he doesn’t.

 

Tucker moves over to where Wash is standing and stops just before their noses touch. Wash, startled, glares back at the sim trooper. 

 

His heart starts to race once more, but for an entirely different reason. 

 

Wash prepares for a lecture, for Tucker to spew off some nonsense about going to sleep, talking to Grey, and the downsides of punching walls. He also prepares to forcibly remove the sim trooper from his bedroom, fucked up knuckles be damned.

 

Instead, Tucker narrows his eyes and says, “Come with me.”

 

“What?” 

 

But Tucker is already dragging the freckled Freelancer from the room. Taking him by the hand, he leads Wash down the hall towards his own room. He pulls him inside, shuts the door, and drops his hand. 

 

Cold air hits Wash’s hand and he balls it into a fist in an attempt to fill the emptiness there.

 

“Sit,” Tucker commands, gesturing to his unmade bed. 

 

Without a word he cleans Wash’s knuckles and dresses the wounds. And Wash lets him, despite every instinct screaming at him to shove him away and run. The sting of the alcohol brings Wash back to reality, and his reality is that he is in Tucker’s room. He stares at Tucker’s face, which is serious, concentrated. And frankly, adorable. 

 

Once Tucker is finished with Wash’s hands he begins ruffling through his things, shoving aside his armor as he digs through his closet. 

 

Wash sits on the edge of Tucker’s bed, staring at the sim trooper as he unearths his touchpad and bounds over to the bed.

 

“Wanna know a secret?” he asks as he hops into bed.

 

“Um,” Wash says. 

 

“I still have a copy of the original  _ Reservoir Dogs _ ,” Tucker confesses.

 

“What?” Wash raises an eyebrow and Tucker shrugs.

 

“What can I say, the guys worked so hard on the remake!” Tucker thinks for a second before adding, “Well, everyone but Grif.”

 

“I think Grif just doesn’t want to admit he cares,” Wash says. 

 

“Grif doesn’t want to do a lot of things,” Tucker replies, rolling his eyes. He taps at his touchpad. His brown eyes light up when he finds what he’s looking for.

 

Tucker looks up at Wash and pats the bed beside him.

 

“Scoot over here,” he says.

 

“What.” 

 

“I mean, you can’t watch the movie from all the way over there,” Tucker says. 

 

“What movie?” Wash asks, even though he knows.

 

“ _ Reservoir Dogs, _ the real one,” Tucker answers, a hint of exasperation playing at the edge of his voice.

 

“Oh.” Wash is still confused as to what is going on. Tucker  _ wants  _ him to sit next to him  _ on his bed  _ and watch a  _ movie _ ? “Are you… sure?”

 

“Dude, if I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have brought you in here and told you about the movie,” Tucker points out. His eyes soften as he breaks out into a grin. “Promise.”

 

Wash doesn’t move.

 

“Why?” he asks.

 

“Why what?” Tucker’s brows furrow, and his grin fades. 

 

“Why did you bring me in here and tell me about your movie?” Wash asks.

 

“Look.” Tucker lowers the touchpad to his lap, raising his eyes to meet Wash’s. “You’ve been through hell and now you’re paying for it. I know you’ve been trying to deal with it on your own, which is fucking stupid-- sh, hear me out,” he says as Wash opens his mouth to argue.

 

“The last thing you need is to deal with this shit alone,” Tucker continues, “Especially since you’ve been reduced to attacking innocent, inanimate objects. What you  _ need _ is to sit your ass next to me and watch the best movie of all time.”

 

Making slow, awkward movements Wash shimmies over to where Tucker sits on the bed. The bed is not really made for two grown men, but they make do, sitting shoulder to shoulder, hunched over the tiny eight by eleven screen.

 

The movie is pretty much what Wash was expecting-- violent and vulgar, but cleverly written with decent cinematography. Not that Wash has much to go off of, his experience with films is pretty limited. 

 

And as the end credits began to roll Wash feels a weight pressing on his shoulder. Tucker has fallen asleep, and Wash’s face goes hot. Panicking, he wonders how he should handle this. If he moves, he’ll wake Tucker up. If he doesn’t, Wash will be stuck here for god knows how long, staring at the wall until the teal soldier either wakes up to pee or wakes up-- god forbid-- in the morning. 

 

He should move. Should go back to his room, clean up, head to the training room.

 

Instead he stays right where he is.

 

Because for the first time in weeks, Wash’s heart feels just a little lighter, his eyes a little heavier. For the first time in weeks, he begins to nod off, head tilting to rest atop Tucker’s. He barely notices the sim trooper’s hair tickle his cheek.

 

Wash loves movie night.


End file.
